


Unsung Melody

by Scribo_Vivere



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribo_Vivere/pseuds/Scribo_Vivere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has always been an enigma, but even the mysterious can become known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsung Melody

**Author's Note:**

> A. To be completely clear, this is NOT a work of plagiarism. I am well aware that this was posted under the name Dragon_Dancer originally: I am that user as well. I had originally joined A03 on April 11, 2012, and posted this work under that pseud, but unfortunately I lost my password for a year and just now reset it to copy the work over to this current account. I'm sure that some may doubt, but I assure you I'm telling the truth.  
> B. Another entry for Astolat's Ten in Ten Challenge. I had it written already; I may as well use it, eh?  
> C. A dear friend of mine gave the idea for this piece, while we had been listening to Celtic Woman's violin concerto "The Butterfly". Thank you, love.

Sherlock Holmes kept his promises, and as such, he attended Watson’s wedding and the outdoor reception on the church grounds that followed, distancing himself from the pain in his heart that let him know the truth quite clearly: John Watson no longer held claim to himself. The good doctor now had a soul-mate, and gods forgive him, Holmes grieved that revelation.

“I say,” a tall older gentleman suddenly rumbled over the rim of his champagne glass, eyeing Holmes with respect. “I’ve heard of your many talents, my good man—one of which happens to be music. What say you to serenading our lovely couple?”

Holmes’ heart shattered all the more, but he maintained his smile. “I hardly think that would be—“

“We’d be honored.”

Watson’s tone of voice, and the way his arm curled around Mary’s waist as they exchanged a loving look, forced a lump to the base of Holmes’ throat. He gently took the offered instrument, running his fingers over the wood and strings. Perhaps he would be allowed one final, poignant goodbye.

Soft claps were heard as Sherlock made his way to the small erected stage, situating the violin under his chin. With an aching soul, he began to play.

The tune was slow, sad, and familiar to one. It was something the detective always played when depressed or upset, and it did not take Watson long to realize that Holmes had been subdued and quiet all the day because of him. As the song progressed, Holmes began to dance along with it, the band striking up impromptu behind him as he lost himself in the music. In the space of a moment, every attendee’s eyes were fixed on him, man and woman alike.

The way his body shifted was near mesmerizing—the sways and dips of his hips, each movement grace personified. Sherlock was, as Watson often noted, an endless void of surprise and talent that few could match up to. The doctor himself probably knew more about his partner than anyone else, but this…this was new to him. Holmes’ feet swept around one another in precise, perfect steps, the curve of his hips and waist following up in a seemingly endless dance of beauty and perfection. And he was beautiful—if such a word could be used to describe men. Flowing and weaving, his long dark hair highlighted against the backdrop of the fading sun; his thick lashes resting gently closed; the bare of his arms, shirt sleeves folded up to the elbow and the first two buttons undone to breathe. The thin material had hitched up as well, Watson noted with a careful eye, the white fabric revealing a thin expanse of a smooth stomach with each small dip of Holmes’ body. Looking at him now, it was all too easy to picture him around a campfire with the very gypsies he was so fond of.

Suddenly the tune changed, becoming faster, and Mary caught her new husband’s arm.

“Come,” she said with a laugh, and Watson was drawn from his reverie as Mary pulled them into the inner circle of guests. All too quickly his feet were flying to keep up with hers, and he found himself awed at her dancing prowess. He had almost forgotten about Holmes until he glanced up at the stage.

Holmes’ fingers flew over the instrument’s strings, unruly locks tumbling over his forehead as he leapt and spun to his own melody, shirt now fully un-tucked. His eyes opened, meeting Watson’s with a fiery sadness, and the doctor’s breath failed him abruptly as he understood everything.

Everyone in attendance had now joined in the dance, unable to resist the detective’s charm with the violin, and Watson lost himself in the task of concentrating on his footing, his mind reeling, hating himself for his blindness. And still the violin sang.

Cheers and loud claps heralded that the detective’s playing had ended, and Watson joined in their applause, his insides coiled into knots of grief and self-directed loathing. Holmes bowed slightly, and then jumped lightly off the stage. Watson did not miss the fact that the violin remained behind, and seeing the tangible evidence of Holmes’ broken heart was too much for the doctor to bear.

Mary gave him a gently puzzled look as he withdrew his hand from hers, planting a soft kiss upon her knuckles before making his way through the guests, all of whom could not cease to sing the detective’s praises.

As he’d suspected, Holmes had slipped off to the nearest spot that was secluded from the gathering. He’d curled up in the grass, knees to his chest, staring into nothing. Watson paused a few feet away, hesitating in his spot. Part of him desperately wanted to go to the detective, but the other, rational side of him was quite loudly demanding that he leave Holmes to his silent grief and return to his new wife’s side, where he belonged.

Suddenly, as if sensing Watson was there, Holmes spoke. His voice was very quiet, but Watson could still hear it as it drifted to him on the gentle evening breeze.

“Don’t trouble yourself about me, old boy. I may be irritating and utterly self-absorbed at times, but I know better than to destroy something so precious. Mary loves you dearly, and she makes you happy. Therefore, you cannot forsake her now. It would be a damning betrayal of the trust and devotion she has so willingly given you.”

A lump filled Watson’s throat, and he watched as Holmes rose, turning to face his friend.

“Forgive me,” the doctor whispered. “I did not know.”

Holmes smiled sadly and stepped close. For a moment, his fingers lingered on Watson’s cheek.

“Jean…tu n'es jamais voulu.”

Watson’s eyes had slipped shut at the murmur. He would have said something, anything, but when he opened them once more, Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

Turning back with bowed head, Watson’s eyes lit on something upon the ground. There in the dirt, unobtrusive and inconspicuous, was a slip of paper, and Watson knew exactly what it was: the receipt from his last bout of gambling.

With a trembling hand, Watson bent to retrieve it. Scrawled on the back, in Holmes’ fluid handwriting, was a familiar statement.

Come at once if convenient…

With eyes that were damp with tears at the knowledge of what he would see next, Watson forced himself to read the last line.

If inconvenient, stay.


End file.
